


Revelations

by galerian_ash



Series: Lost to be Found [2]
Category: Battle Creek (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Reveal, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 15:15:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3733627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galerian_ash/pseuds/galerian_ash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Milt turned his head to look at Russ, a sad smile curving his lips. He was deathly pale; the blood on his face was the only thing giving it any color. "Is it all you hoped it would be? Are you happy, now?"</p><p>No, Russ wasn't happy. Very far from it. The sweet victory he'd been anticipating tasted just like bile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revelations

**Author's Note:**

> Phew, I managed to finish this -- with a couple of hours to spare, even! -- before the next episode aired.
> 
> This sequel would not have been written without you, dear readers. Thank you so much for telling me you wanted more, it really means the world to me. I hope this doesn't disappoint!

One thing was clear.

Either Milt was the kind of man who couldn't remember what he'd done while drunk, or he was just as good an actor as he was a liar. Russ' money was on the latter.

Unfortunately, that was the _only_ thing that was clear. Everything else was a complete, incomprehensible mess — including his own feelings.

For where his gaze had once been drawn to Holly's desk, he now found it wandering across the hallway, seeking out Milt. The first time it had happened, he'd met Milt's eyes. Russ had immediately looked away, heart racing for no discernible reason.

He'd looked into Milt's office countless of times since then, but he'd never caught Milt staring back again. That was oddly disappointing, which didn't make any sense. But neither did the way he'd wake up in the middle of the night, hard, with the taste of whiskey in his mouth and the warmth of Milt's skin tingling on his fingers.

Russ felt like he was slowly going insane, fighting the crazed urge to simply march into Milt's office and shove him against the wall, kissing him within an inch of his life — demanding an answer from his body, instead of his forked tongue. He'd be able to tell, then, if Milt really had forgotten.

Work was the only thing that was unaffected. That was a good thing, since otherwise Battle Creek would've been out one mayor. Frustration caused his barbs to be more venomous than before — but now, they came with the additional cost of guilt.

Worst of all, guilt was a package deal; the ability to see _hurt_ , was also included. It was plain as day on Milt's face, when Russ attacked his stance on lies — it had perhaps been there all along, every time he'd called Milt a tool or accused him of being soulless, if only Russ had bothered to look.

He didn't know what to do. He felt like he was treading water in uncharted territory, with nothing but time on his side.

\----

Time wasn't on his side. That much was clear, as Russ stared down the barrel of David Baker's gun.

"You don't want to do this," Milt said.

Russ snorted. "Of course he does. He'll be in the clear if he gets rid of us; no one will ever know that mild-mannered — door mat — David Baker killed his wife."

"Russ," Milt hissed, "this really isn't the time."

Ignoring him, Russ continued. "But you see, there's just one problem with your plan."

"And what's that?" Baker's hand was steady, gun not wavering in the slightest — aimed directly at Russ.

"You shoot us, you're gonna leave evidence. They'll match your gun to the bullets."

"Sure, that would be a concern, _if_ I thought anyone would find you."

Well, shit. That wasn't gonna work, time to come up with a new plan of action. Before he could think of anything Milt moved forward, getting in the direct line of fire.

"You killed your wife because she hurt you. She was cruel and mean, nothing you did was ever good enough. She cheated on you, over and over again. A jury will understand that, David. What they won't understand is killing two men who were just doing their job."

Baker shook his head, hand dangerously tightening on the gun. Russ felt sick, entire being screaming at him to shove Milt out of the way.

"I found this place when I was a kid," Baker said. "I guess it's an old bomb shelter, but no one seems to know it's here. The only reason you found it is because you fucking followed me."

"David," Milt began, voice slow and measured.

"No," he yelled, clearly unraveling. "I have to do this!"

Milt's body tensed, probably about to do something stupidly heroic like tackling him, when the gun went off.

Milt went down like a ton of bricks.

There was a moment where Russ could perhaps have overpowered Baker, as he merely stood and gaped at his handiwork. Russ, however, was busy falling to his knees and frantically trying to get a reading on Milt's pulse — made difficult not just by his own panic, but also by the slick blood that already coated Milt's throat. By the time Russ found the reassuring heartbeat, Baker was climbing out, locking the latch from the outside.

Russ wasn't about to waste time on that, however. Milt was top priority right now. It had been a headshot, a terrifying realization until Russ located the actual wound. Despite all the blood, the bullet had merely grazed his temple. It was still bad, yes, but not directly fatal.

Russ took off his tie and looped it around Milt's head, staunching the blood flow. His hands were shaking badly, and most of all he felt like throwing up. He pulled Milt into his lap, trying to get him as comfortable as possible.

He looked different when unconscious — younger, unguarded.

"You idiot," Russ whispered, "what were you thinking, huh? Were you _trying_ to get yourself shot?"

He shifted his hold on Milt, freeing one hand to carefully card through his hair, attempting to get some of the blood out of it. The sticky strands curled around his fingers; adding a splash of bright red to the darker, dried blood on them.

"Hey, partner, come on. Need you to wake up and help me figure out a way to get outta here. ...No? Alright, take your time. I'm not going anywhere."

And so Russ waited, one hand slowly combing through Milt's hair, the other on his chest, taking comfort from the steady rise and fall.

\----

An hour later, Russ was getting sick and tired of waiting. It wasn't a good sign for Milt to be unconscious for so long, he needed to wake up _now_.

"If you're waiting for me to kiss you, you're shit outta luck," Russ said, forcing a laugh. "You may fulfill the role of Sleeping Beauty, but I'm no Prince Charming. Sorry to break it to you, pal."

Milt's eyebrows drew together, a low moan emitting from his throat.

"That's it," Russ coaxed, "open up those pretty eyes of yours."

"John...?" Milt croaked as his eyelids fluttered.

John? Who the hell was that? "It's me, it's Russ. Can you hear me?"

"Yeah," Milt replied. He opened his eyes, only to immediately squeeze them shut again, groaning. "What happened?"

"Remember David Baker? He wasn't afraid to use his gun after all."

Milt's eyes flew open, pupils dilated. "Were you hit?!"

Something inside of Russ physically _hurt_. "Nah," he answered, voice soft, "this big idiot got between me and the gun."

Milt let out a breath, body relaxing. His eyes slid closed again. "Good," he mumbled.

"Hey, stay with me."

"Mm."

"I'm serious, Milt. Try to stay awake."

"...You're warm." Milt shifted, turning his body towards Russ.

Hesitating only briefly, Russ reached out to resume his careful petting. "Hurts?"

"Feels like my head is gonna split apart."

Russ' hand stilled, unsure if his touch was aggravating the pain.

"No, don't stop."

Well, that was certainly answer enough.

They stayed like that for a while, before Russ — partly because he wanted to make sure Milt remained awake, and partly because he really wanted to know — asked, "Who is John?"

"Where did you hear that name?" Milt shot back, some emotion Russ couldn't quite identify in his voice.

"You said it, as you were regaining consciousness. You were out of it; maybe you thought I was him."

"That'd be really stupid of me," he said after a while.

"How so?"

"John is dead."

"Oh. I — I'm sorry."

"Yeah," Milt whispered, "me too." His eyes were open again, but there was something empty and vacant in them, like he was somewhere far away.

"Who was he?" Russ asked.

"My partner."

"What happened?"

:"He was..." Milt trailed off before letting out a mirthless bark of laughter. "Oh, I get it now," he said, struggling to sit up.

"Hey, hey, I don't think you should get up."

"Come off it, Russ." Milt pushed away his hands.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'll give it to you, though — you almost had me. This was your best attempt so far."

"The hell?" Russ scooted back on the floor, torn between anger and worry. Acting irrational could be a byproduct of a head injury, but it didn't seem like that was it.

Apparently not satisfied with just getting off Russ' lap, Milt began to stand. He was wobbly as hell, bracing his arms against the wall and breathing heavily.

Russ got to his feet as well, wanting to make sure he'd be able to catch Milt if he keeled over. "Take it easy, okay?"

"You can stop pretending to care now."

Gaping, Russ shook his head. "You almost got your head blown off, and you think I'm _faking_ my concern?"

"Couldn't waste your chance to pump me for information, could you? Didn't think you were quite that callous, Russ. Good for you."

"Screw you, Milt," Russ snapped. "You started it by saying his name."

Milt bared his teeth in a mockery of a smile. "Yeah, it's my own fault. I'm not denying that."

"Look, let's just..." Russ rubbed a hand over his face, instantly regretting it when the smell of blood hit his nostrils. "Let's try to think of a way to get out of here. Baker took both our guns and our phones, and I don't think we're going to be able to get the hatch open from the inside."

"Someone will come for us, as soon as they notice we're missing."

"If we were driving your fancy FBI car, yeah, maybe. They could probably locate that thing in ten seconds flat — but mine? No way."

Milt muttered something under his breath. It sounded suspiciously like 'I put a tracking device in your car.'

"Wait, _what_ did you say?"

"Nothing, forget it." Milt looked utterly exhausted, and his knees were starting to buckle. It put an immediate damper on Russ' outrage.

"Come on, sit down. You look like shit."

"I feel like it, too. And I'm tired, Russ, really tired. You want to know why I'm in Battle Creek?" Milt slumped against the wall, slowly sliding down it until he was sitting on the ground.

Russ walked over and sat down beside him, close enough that their legs touched. He didn't say anything.

"I tampered with evidence, threatened an innocent man, and killed three people."

The tone of Milt's voice was all wrong; utterly calm and steady, like he was talking about what he'd eaten for dinner the previous day. Russ didn't believe a single word. "That's not true," he said.

"One of those three was John. That's how he died."

"Bullshit. Your past may be a mystery to me, but I — I know you well enough to be able to tell that you're not a killer. Hell, I doubt you'd do _any_ of those things. You're not the type."

"Sorry, Russ, but this time you're wrong. I'm telling you the truth." Milt turned his head to look at Russ, a sad smile curving his lips. He was deathly pale; the blood on his face was the only thing giving it any color. "Is it all you hoped it would be? Are you happy, now?"

No, Russ wasn't happy. Very far from it. The sweet victory he'd been anticipating tasted just like bile. The only thing that kept him grounded was the fact that he _knew_ there was more to the story. Milt wasn't a murderer. He couldn't be. Period.

He would've said as much, if a loud bang from the hatch hadn't caught his attention "Hey!" he shouted. "We're in here!"

Technically it could be Baker, returning to finish the job — but there'd be no reason for him to have to smash the latch open. A few minutes later it opened, and Font's head peeked inside.

"Tell me you've got a medic with you," Russ said.

"No, it's just me and backup."

"Damn," Russ swore. He turned back to Milt, reaching out to help him up. "Come, let's go to the hospital."

Milt took his proffered hand, getting to his feet with a groan. He let go of Russ' hand as soon as he was standing. "Go after Baker instead. Just — just get someone to drive me there."

Russ bit down on his protests. Milt was right, they had to get Baker before he skipped town. Staying with Milt and making sure he was alright wasn't an option, as much as he wanted it to be. "I'll be with you as soon as I can," he said, before turning to the others. "Font, you come with me. You two, get him to the hospital right away. Radio ahead so that they're prepared."

He waited till they made their way down the hatch to help Milt, before climbing out himself.

\----

Foregoing knocking, Russ slammed the door open and stalked into Milt's place.

It was just as impressive-looking as he remembered it, but this time he took note of how sterile and impersonal it really was. 'It's not _home_ ," Milt had said, and Russ finally understood what he'd meant.

"Milt, where the hell are you?" he called. Even to his own ears he sounded irritated and pissed — but that was fine, because he _was_. Rushing to the hospital only to be told that your partner had checked himself out, against the doctor's recommendation, tended to do that to you.

"Bedroom."

Gritting his teeth, Russ headed towards Milt's voice. "I told you I'd come for you, why didn't you just-" the rest of the sentence died in his throat, as he rounded the corner and found Milt.

He was _packing_.

"What are you doing?" Russ forced out.

Milt turned to him, smiling. He was still pale as hell, but he seemed less groggy. There was a row of neat stitches along his temple.

"Shouldn't that be bandaged or something?" Russ asked.

The smile faded. "No need, they said — wasn't in an area that was likely to get dirty, and it was better to let the wound breathe. I didn't realize it looked that bad, I'm sorry. I can cover it up."

"No, I didn't — I didn't mean it like that." Russ was bothered by it, but not because it looked disgusting or anything. No, it was just such a stark reminder that he'd come _this_ close to losing Milt.

And what the hell was that, anyway? Losing him? It wasn't as if Milt was his to lose, in the first place. But that's what it felt like. Russ didn't like it one bit.

"That's for you," Milt said, pointing to a neatly rolled tie, lying on top of the closed suitcase on his bed. "They cut off your tie before I could stop them. I'm not sure you would've been able to get the blood stains out of it, anyway."

"I don't want it."

"It's silk, made by Charvet. It's the best one I have, but if you don't like the color I can get you another one."

"I don't want any of your ties, Milt."

"No," he mumbled, "of course you don't." He grabbed the tie and carelessly tossed it into the duffel bag in front of him. "Did you get Baker?"

"Yes. Now tell me why you're packing."

"I'm guessing you haven't talked to Guziewicz yet?"

Russ frowned. "I asked Font to handle the case for now."

"No, I meant talked to her about _me_."

"Why would I?" Russ walked across the room to sit down on the edge of the bed. The adrenaline was beginning to wear off, and he was starting to feel utterly beat.

"Well, when you do talk to her," Milt continued, ignoring Russ' question, "you're gonna find out that there's not much you can do. The FBI covered up everything; there's no way you can nail me for any of it. She'll be in her full right to order me to get the hell out of town, however."

"...And that's why you're packing," Russ finished.

"Yes. Might as well get ready."

"You're okay with that? Not even gonna _try_ to fight it?"

"I made my choice, years ago. I only have myself to blame for this. You want me to leave, I'll leave."

"I don't want you to leave!" The words escaped Russ' mouth before he could stop them. Pressing his lips together, he glared at Milt. "I'm not going to talk to Guziewicz. Even if what you told me were true — and I don't believe it is."

Milt stared at him for a long time. The shirt he'd been folding slipped from his hands, as he took an unsteady step forward and sat down next to Russ. "You want me to stay?" he asked, voice small.

Russ sighed. "How about you tell me everything, from the start?"

"It's not going to change the facts, you know. What I told you still stands — I did all those things."

"Then telling me won't make a difference. Think about it. You told me the truth, told me you were a killer, and I'm still here. I'm still here, Milt," he said, moving his hand to cover Milt's, squeezing it gently.

Milt looked at Russ' hand, no doubt taking in the dried blood that still stained the skin. He slowly turned his own hand, lacing their fingers together.

"I guess it began with Caroline."

"Caroline?" Russ prompted, when it seemed like Milt wasn't going to continue.

"Yeah, she was — she was just a little girl. Got kidnapped by her father after her mother got sole custody. We were in charge of the case, and for a while it looked like things were going to be okay. He didn't even try to leave the country, and we were able to track him down to a motel. They were both dead by the time we got there. Murder-suicide."

Russ remained silent. There wasn't anything _to_ say; no amount of words could make something like that okay.

"John took it really hard. The job had been getting to him for a while, and I guess... I guess that was the final straw. He began drinking, heavily. I started having to cover for him; he'd show up late, or not at all, leaving me to work on my own a lot of the time."

"You shouldn't have let him get away with that," Russ muttered. No matter how fucked up you were, you should never leave your partner without someone to watch his back.

Milt stiffened. He withdrew his hand, letting out a shaky breath. "I know that now," he said, "I did the wrong thing. I thought I was helping him, but in reality I'm the reason everything went to pieces."

Shit, Milt had misunderstood his comment. He opened his mouth to explain, but Milt started talking again — like something in him had been pulled loose, and now he couldn't get the words out fast enough.

"One night he called me, said he'd smashed up this bar he frequented and that he was screwed, because the owner knew who he was. So I went down there. I destroyed the CCTV footage, and told the owner that I'd make his life a living hell if he pressed charges. I hated myself for it, but I was trying to protect John. And that was always the right thing to do, no matter what."

So, that was two out of three. Only thing remaining was the people Milt had supposedly killed. There was a lot Russ wanted to say, but he didn't want to break the moment. Better to let Milt talk until he was done, than interrupt him.

"He started doing heavy drugs. I became distraught when I found out, and we ended up fighting. I said a lot of things I shouldn't have, and he hated me for it. Told me he'd never asked me to play savior."

Milt got to his feet, moving away until he stood across the room from Russ. He crossed his arms across his chest, defensively, only to let them drop a second later. "John drove off. I didn't do anything to stop him. I got the call an hour later."

"Dead?" Russ asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Yes. Plowed into another car. There were four people in that car, two didn't make it."

Russ got off the bed. "That wasn't your fault."

"No?" Milt scoffed. "If it weren't for me, John — and the other two — would've been alive today."

"You don't know that. If you hadn't been there for him, he might died long before." Russ walked over, stopping to stand in front of Milt. He reached out, uncurling Milt's tight fists. There were crescent marks on his palms, from where the nails had dug into the flesh. Russ rubbed them with his thumbs.

"I told the FBI everything. They didn't want a scandal on their hands, so they swept the whole thing under the rug. They kept me around for a while, probably to make sure I was still stable, before sending me out here."

"You could have told me."

"And make you hate me even more?"

Russ shook his head. "I never hated you, Milt."

Milt didn't respond. But his down-turned mouth made it pretty clear that he didn't believe anything Russ was saying. He looked miserable, and tired as hell. No wonder, considering the day he'd had. Russ could've kicked himself.

"You need to get some rest." Russ tugged him towards the bed before moving to the door, wanting to give him some privacy. "Hey, do you mind if I use your shower? I'd really like to get out of these clothes."

A look of surprised confusion crossed Milt's face. "Sure," he said, grabbing the duffel bag and handing it to Russ. "There are some casual clothes in there that'll probably fit you."

"Thanks. Good night, Milt."

"Good night."

Russ closed the door behind him, grimacing at his own reluctance. He didn't want to leave Milt alone; wanted to make sure he got into bed properly, and managed to fall asleep. But he had no idea where they stood right now.

At least he was painfully aware of what it was he was starting to feel for Milt. The events of the day had forced him to face it, and Milt opening up to him had only served to cement it. It wasn't just a matter of lust brought on by the kiss, like he'd been trying to tell himself — no, it was a lot worse than that.

Hook, line, and sinker. He'd fallen for Milt.

\----

The sound of running footsteps woke him.

Disoriented, he fumbled for his gun on the bedside cabinet — only to slam his hand into Milt's coffee table. He sat up on the couch, groaning, as the footsteps came to an abrupt halt. The sound of someone vomiting took their place.

Russ got up and hurried towards the sound. The sweatpants he'd borrowed were too long for him, causing him to trip. He came stumbling into the bathroom, banging his elbow on the doorframe.

Milt was kneeling on the floor next to the toilet, head hanging low, panting. He was naked except for a pair of boxer briefs.

Forcing himself to look away, Russ focused on the cabinet, rummaging through it till he found a glass. He filled it with water and walked over to Milt, handing it to him.

Milt took it, rinsing his mouth before drinking greedily.

"Want some more?" Russ asked.

"No, thank you." He put the glass on the floor, and heaved himself up. There was a slight frown on his face as he studied Russ. "You're still here?"

"Uh, yeah...? I asked if I could use your shower, remember?"

"I did think that was strange," Milt said, dragging a hand through his hair. "Figured you maybe wanted to clean up before going home."

"I'm not about to just take off when I know you have a concussion," Russ muttered, feeling a bit offended. "Come, let's get you back in bed before you start freezing."

"I would've worn something else had I known you were here." Milt sounded almost... embarrassed? And was that a _blush_ on his face?

Russ couldn't resist teasing. "I don't mind," he said, firing off his best leer.

Milt burst into laughter. "Ow, don't do that," he wheezed out. "Laughing is not a good idea right now."

"Sorry," Russ said, not feeling sorry in the least. The laugh had been utterly genuine; no act, no front, no nothing. Just Milt.

Russ could get used to that.

He followed Milt back into the bedroom, watching silently as he got under the covers. "Well, I'll — I'll be around if you need anything," he blurted out, when realizing that it was probably creepy to just stand there staring.

"Russ?"

"Yeah?"

"Why did you stay? I told you everything. There's nothing more for you to find out."

Russ took a deep breath. Time to do some soul-baring of his own. But there was one thing he had to know, first. "That night you called me, when you were drunk, do you remember what happened?"

"Of course I do," Milt replied, almost casually.

"You certainly didn't _act_ like you did," Russ said, allowing himself to get sidetracked.

Milt frowned, a pensive look on his face. "I thought that was what you wanted me to do. Wasn't it?"

"That's bullshit," Russ snapped, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "I told you, straight out, to talk to me when you were sober."

"So what?" Milt retorted, sitting up to face him. "Heat of the moment, Russ. You made no move to remind me. In fact, you seemed perfectly content to pretend like it never happened."

"I didn't think you remembered!"

"Oh, I _wish_ I could forget!"

Russ froze. Milt's eyes widened, and he let out a low groan as he covered his head in his hands. "It's not like you think," he whispered. "I wished to forget about kissing you because the last thing I wanted was for you to get mixed up in my problems. You deserve better than that."

Russ extended a hand, gently taking hold of Milt's chin and tipping it up. "Hey," he whispered, "don't be so hard on yourself."

Milt opened his mouth to reply, and Russ shook his head. "Enough talk," he said, fingers moving up to trace the outline of Milt's bottom lip before leaning forward.

The kiss was different, this time. There was a sense of comfort and familiarity, like this was something utterly _right_. It was unlike the frantic, almost desperate, kiss they'd shared before — but no less arousing.

Russ had to force himself to pull back. "Listen," he said, "I want you to know something. I stayed because I care about you. It's not about your past, or sex, or anything like that — I just... I... I don't know how to put it into words. God, I suck at this."

"Let me be the judge of that," Milt said, smiling softly.

"Alright," Russ agreed, stealing one more kiss before starting to get up. He hesitated when seeing the disappointment on Milt's face, and sat down again. "What do you think, this bed big enough for two?"

"I think it is, yeah." Milt's grin was brilliant, eyes shining. It made Russ want to reach out and hold him close.

...So he did.


End file.
